


Cabin Pressure

by methylviolet10b



Series: Emergency Contact Number [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Claustrophobia, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tense car ride to the hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cabin Pressure

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of the story started in Emergency Contact Number. If you haven't read the earlier stories in this series, you might not want to read this one. And this too is a promptfill story, in response to the following prompt:
> 
> Enclosed spaces. Whether that's a closet (oy, minds out of the gutter ppl), spelunking expedition, collapsed tunnel (muahaha), or just general claustrophobia or the mental sense of being trapped, use the prompt however it strikes you.

The rear interior compartment of Mycroft’s car was generously sized. Enormous, really. Certainly far larger than any vehicle Lestrade regularly rode around in. It had felt almost cavernous on the ride to Sherlock’s flat.

Sitting next to Sherlock’s tense, rigidly-upright, subtly vibrating form, Mycroft a dimly-seen shadow on Sherlock’s other side, Lestrade could feel the walls of the car pressing in on him. He knew there was plenty of space, physically. He had room between his body and Sherlock’s as they sat on the seat. He was absolutely certain there was space between Sherlock and Mycroft.

There wasn’t room enough in the world for the emotions crackling through the compartment. Certainly not enough room for them in the back of an ostensibly anonymous, posh government vehicle, speeding through the rain on the way to hospital.

No one said a word.

Lestrade would have liked to break that oppressive silence. He wanted to reach out to Sherlock somehow, offer some kind of reassurance (but what reassurance was there to be had?) or comfort (how did you comfort a self-described high-functioning sociopath?) or sympathy (oh dear merciful God, let there not be real reason for sympathy, for _condolences_ ). It was human nature to want to reach out to others in need. To reach out when _in_ need. To touch, to communicate in ways far older than language that you were there, nearby, present for the person in pain; that there were others near at hand, there to help you or at least be with you when you were the one drowning. Lestrade knew this. He knew this as a professional with years of experience dealing with people experiencing the worst possible circumstances: victims of horrible crimes, relatives and friends and lovers struggling in the aftermath of the unthinkable. More importantly, he knew this as a man, as a human being with his own past history and baggage of pain.

 _None_ of this gave him the least idea what to do, what to say, in the confines of this space.

Because this was _Sherlock_.

So he sat there smothering in the fraught silence, near enough to Sherlock to sense his body heat, feel his presence, but not actually touching him. Close enough to be touched, to be leaned against or jostled or whatever contact Sherlock might want (or engineer), but not forcing the issue. Close enough, hopefully, that Sherlock could sense him trying to be there for him, however ineptly.

Sherlock never wavered, never moved, never spoke. Certainly made no movement to reach out to Lestrade, or acknowledge that he was there. He hardly even blinked, not until they pulled to a stop in front of the hospital doors. Then Lestrade barely had enough time to exit the car and get out of the way before Sherlock exploded out of the interior in a flurry of coat and scarf and gangly limbs and strode for the entrance as fast as those long legs could carry him. Lestrade rushed to stay at his heels, dimly aware that Mycroft was following behind in a dignified, swift walk.

Mycroft’s assistant met them almost the moment they walked in. Sherlock immediately started demanding answers of her, questioning her rapidly and ruthlessly for every detail, snapping at her as viciously as Lestrade had ever seen him when she didn’t have the answers that he wanted. Mycroft intervened, somehow managing to keep things (Sherlock) from turning into an epic scene. He and his assistant worked in perfect unison, guiding Sherlock to a private waiting area where they provided him with reports and diagrams and details of the crash, plus more information than Lestrade privately thought was _possible_ to have about John’s condition when brought in, estimates on how long before John would be out of surgery, and the C.V.’s of _everyone_ currently working on him. It wasn’t _enough_ , could not be enough until they had actual word of John, or better yet _saw_ him, but it was sufficient to calm Sherlock back into that silent, rigid state, waiting absurdly prim and proper in one of the startlingly comfortable chairs.

Lestrade took the one next to him, feeling even more useless than before, but determined to stick it out to the end. Maybe Sherlock didn’t need him to be here, but _he_ needed to be here. For Sherlock, and for John, and for himself.

It was only as Mycroft murmured something to his brother, too softly for Lestrade to catch, before gliding towards the corridor, that Lestrade noticed it.

Mycroft’s perfectly pressed and tailored suit was no longer so immaculate. One lower sleeve was creased and mangled, the fabric still showing the marks although nothing now twisted it out of shape.

The sleeve that had been closest to Sherlock, when they had been in the car.

Sherlock had reached out to someone after all.

Maybe Sherlock needed them all there more than Lestrade had thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 28, 2011


End file.
